


A revolution of coats and boots

by Jean_grantaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, there's basically no plot sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jean_grantaire/pseuds/Jean_grantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire would accuse Enjolras of caring too much, Enjolras would accuse Grantaire of caring too little. The middle ground is as sacred as it is unspoken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A revolution of coats and boots

The evening was warm despite the late hour, Paris humming with activity as the sun bled into the horizon. The Musain stood quiet, the lack of sound a shock after the friendly volume of many conversations drowning out the quieter talk of revolution. They had to be cautious, after all, even now, a couple of short months from the liberation of France. Especially now.   
One of the last to leave was Enjolras, wishing safety to each man as he departed with only a glance up from the stock list he was adding a few final details to. The colours of the sunset through the windows only made him more beautiful, although as the room's other occupant pointed out only a few short minutes earlier mid-speech they bathed him in blood that he was yet to see.   
Grantaire lay slumped across his table, fast asleep, and the ends of his hair could have easily passed for ink spilled across the table to bleed into the dips and grooves of the wood. Enjolras was reluctant to wake him, and not only for the monumental effort of the challenge or the peace that his unconsciousness brought - though they got on poorly at the best of times when both awake, he was no monster, and the Musain remained probably amongst the safest of the many locations Grantaire might have chosen to sleep in.   
All too soon Enjolras' map was finished and his bag carefully packed. He sized up Grantaire's sleeping form for a moment as though about to fight him rather than wake him, then crossed to his table and shook at his shoulder, his actions and voice both firm but not yet harsh as he attempted to wake him. "Grantaire."  
Grantaire jolted back to consciousness as though disturbed from a terrible dream, his eyes wild as they cast around the room for a few moments in panic before settling on Enjolras, relaxing back into his chair with an expression undeniably close to relief as it softened to the tender stare reserved only for his marble chief despite the frown which had written itself across Enjolras' face. "I am undeniably separated from Morpheus and yet you remain in my bed chambers. Am I to be treated to a repeat performance?"  
Enjolras' frown deepened at that, any sympathy for Grantaire lost as it so often was at the mercy of his insensitive tongue. "Take your filth elsewhere. The good landlord has his own bed to return to before morning, and it cannot be done whilst you darken his tables."   
Grantaire yawned in response, stretching languidly and creating an illusion for just a moment that he might be about to get up without any further protest, which would have been equally suspicious and satisfying. "Elsewhere? Where else would you have me? Courfeyrac's sofa is filled by Marius and his startling new coat. I will not brave Jolllly's rooms on such a night when they stretch for both mistresses and eagles, Bahorel and Feuilly have abandoned sleep in favour of cards against a horde of poets, Prouvaire has likely taken to another universe and I could not find Combeferre's rooms among the labyrinth surrounding them."   
"And of your own rooms?" Enjolras was impatient now, cutting Grantaire off before he could become too absorbed in his own stream of words.   
"My key has been lost to a cheating law student, my spare to the latest rip in Lesgle's coat. I cannot break the window again or my neighbours will have the law against me." Grantaire looked entirely unconcerned despite his words, kicking his legs out so that his crossed ankles fell just short of Enjolras' feet where he stood beside the table.  
"You cannot stay here!"  
"Leave me be. My bones are too old to take to the alleys - age has spared my hair in exchange for my joints."  
"Do not be a fool!"  
"I have not the wardrobe for it. My shoes are neither the polished heels of the bourgeois nor the sandals of a slave, and heaven forbid they should be found bearing bells! Perhaps I shall take to the style of the barefooted philosopher, although Descartes the cosmic magician is only a short few lines from Shakespeare's fairies and so my feet remain hidden. Ah! Whilst we stand on the subject of shoes, do not let Boissy-" Grantaire interrupted himself momentarily with a wide yawn. "Do not hear from her that I-" he yawned again, and Enjolras' eyes narrowed suspiciously as he blinked heavily with it, the head of dark curls dipping dangerously close to his table once more. "Sleep is a selfish host." He concluded in a sleepy mumble, Enjolras' attempts to hold him to the waking world falling moments too late, countered quite effectively by soft snoring.   
It would be well into morning before Grantaire woke to realise the coat around his shoulders as that of Enjolras, and a good few weeks longer before it was returned just the same, tucked across Enjolras' shoulders when he woke with a pillow of illegal papers and a mattress of a chair and table in the back room of the Musain.

**Author's Note:**

> find me to chat or prompt at jean-grantaire on tumblr!   
> I accept full responsibility for the terrible title and summary.


End file.
